Mrs. Hunt's china, like her grammar, was of two sorts. When her duty
to "society" or the necessity of circumstances forced her to be
hospitable, she "did the thing" well. At a notice of moderate length
she could get up a handsome, if not a bountiful, entertainment, to
which no man need have been ashamed to seat his friends, and when the
occasion warranted the display she grudged not the "other" china, the
other silver, nor the other table-linen.
She did, however, set her face, like a broad flint, against the
irregularity of inviting chance visitors to partake of the family
bread and salt. Intimate as Victoria West was with Lucy, she met only
a civil show of regretful acquiescence in her proposal to go home as
the dinner hour approached, and Robbie or Richard Hunt was promptly
offered to escort her to her abode upon the next block. If she remained
to luncheon, as she would do occasionally, Lucy, in her hearing, begged
her mother to excuse them from going down, and to send up two cups
of tea and a few sandwiches to the sitting-room. This slight repast
was served by the butler upon a neat little tray, in a tete-a-tete
service--a Christmas gift to Lucy "from her ever-loving Victoria," and
sentimentally dedicated to the use of the pair of adopted sisters.
Therefore, Sarah was not surprised to find Victoria gone, despite the
storm, when she entered the dining-room. An immense crumb-cloth covered
the carpet; a row of shrouded chairs, packed elbow to elbow, stood
against the further end of the apartment, and a set of very ordinary
ones were around the table. The cloth was of whity-brown material, and
the dishes a motley collection of halt and maimed--for all Mrs. Hunt's
vigilance could not make servants miraculously careful. There was no
propriety, however, according to her system of economy, in condemning
a plate or cup as past service because it had come off second best, to
the extent of a crack or nick or an amputated handle, in an encounter
with some other member of the crockery tribe. "While there is life
there is hope," was, in these cases, paraphrased by her to the effect
that while a utensil would hold water it was too good to be thrown away.
It was not a sumptuous repast to which Sarah sat down after she had
placed Jeannie in her high chair and tied the great gingham bib around
her neck. On the contrary, it came near being a scant provision for
the healthy appetites of seven people. Before Mr. Hunt, a mild, quiet
little man, was a dish of stew, which was, in its peculiar line, a
thing--not of beauty, but wonder.
Only a few days since, as I stood near the stall of a poultry vender in
market, a lady inquired for chickens.
"Yes, ma'am. Roasting size, ma'am?"
"No. I want them for a fricassee."
"Ah"--with a look of shrewd intelligence. "Then, ma'am, I take it, you
don't care to have 'em overly tender. Most ladies prefers the old ones
for fricassee. They come cheaper and very often bile tender."
"Thank you," was the amused rejoinder. "The difference in the price is
no consideration where the safety of our teeth is concerned."
Mrs. Hunt suffered not these scruples to hinder her negotiations with
knowing poultry merchants. A cent less per pound would be three cents
saved upon the chicken, and three cents would buy enough turnips for
dinner. It is an ignorant housekeeper who needs to be informed that
stewed chicken "goes further" than the same fowl made into any other
savory combination. Mrs. Hunt's stews were concocted after a recipe of
her own invention. Imprimis, one chicken, weight varying from two and a
half to three pounds; salt pork, a quarter of a pound; gravy abundant;
dumplings innumerable. It was all "stew," and if Jeannie's share was
but a bare drumstick, swimming in gravy and buried in boiled dough,
there was the chicken flavor through the portion.
For classic antecedent the reader is referred to the fable of the
rose-scented clay.
To leave the principal dish, which justice to Mrs. Hunt's genius would
not permit me to pass with briefer mention, there were, besides,
potatoes, served whole (mashed ones required butter and cream), turnips
and bread, and Mrs. Hunt presided over a shallow platter of pork and
beans. What was left of that dish would be warmed over to piece out
breakfast next morning. The children behaved well, and the most minute
by-law of table etiquette was observed with a strictness that imparted
an air of ceremonious restraint to the meal. If Mrs. Hunt's young
people were not in time finished ladies and gentlemen, it was not her
fault, nor was it for the lack of drilling.
"Do as I tell you; not as I do," were her orders in these matters.
Since Lucy had completed her education, the mother added, "Look at
your sister; she is never awkward." This was true. Lucy was born the
fine lady. Refinement of manner and grace of movement, an instinctive
avoidance of whatever looked common or underbred were a part of her
nature. Only the usage of years had accustomed her to her mother's
somewhat "fussy" ways.
Had she met her in company as Mrs. Anybody else, she would have yielded
her the right of way with a feeling of amazement and amiable pity that
one who meant so well should so often overdo the thing she aimed to
accomplish easily and gracefully. Following out her excellent system
of training, the worthy dame demanded as diligent and alert watching
from her butler as if she were having a dinner party. The eggless rice
pudding was brought on with a state that was absolutely ludicrous; but
the family were used to the unsubstantial show and took it as a matter
of course.
After the meal was over Mrs. Hunt withdrew to the kitchen for a short
conference with the cook and a sharp glance through the closets. It was
impossible that the abstraction of six slices of bread from the baking
of the preceding day, three thick pieces of cheese and more than half
of the cold meat she had decided would, in the form of hash, supply the
other piece of the breakfast at which the beans were to assist, should
escape her notice.
Mr. Hunt was reading the evening paper by the droplight in the
sitting-room, Lucy was busy with her shawl, and Sarah told a simple
tale in a low voice to Jeannie as she leaned upon her lap, when the
wife and mother entered, with something like a bluster. All present
looked up, and each one remarked the cloud upon her brow.
"What is the matter, mother?" said Mr. Hunt, in a tone not free from
alarm.
"I am worried! That's the whole of it. I am downright vexed with you,
Sarah, and surprised, too! What upon earth possessed you, child, to
take that beggar into my kitchen to-day? After all I have told you and
tried to learn you about these shameful impostors! I declare I was beat
out when I heard it. And to throw away provisions and clothes upon such
a brat!"
Lucy opened her great eyes at her sister, and Mr. Hunt looked
perplexedly towards his favorite, for at heart he was partial to his
second child.
"I took the poor creature to the fire, mother, because she was wet
and cold; I fed her because she was hungry; I gave her some old, warm
clothes of mine because hers were thin and soaked with rain."
"Poor little girl!" murmured Jeannie compassionately.
Sarah's hand closed instantly over the little fingers. The
simple-hearted babe understood and sympathized with her motive and act
better than did her wiser elders.
"Oh, I have no doubt she told a pitiful story, and shed enough tears
to wet her through, if the rain had not done it already. If you listen
to what these wretches say, and undertake to relieve their wants, you
will soon have not a dress to your back nor a house over your head. Why
didn't you send her to some society for the relief of the poor?"
"I did not know where to find one, ma'am."
This plain truth, respectfully uttered, confounded Mrs. Hunt for a
second.
"Mrs. James is one of the managers in a benevolent association," she
said, recovering herself. "You had ought to have given your beggar her
address."
"Even if I had known that fact, mother, the girl would have been
obliged to walk half a mile in the storm to find this one manager. What
do you suppose Mrs. James would have done for her that was not in my
power to perform?"
"She would have asked the child whereabouts she lived, and to-morrow
she would have gone to hunt her up. If she found all as she had been
told, which is not likely--these creatures don't give a right direction
once in ten times--why, she would have brought the case before the
board at their next meeting, and they would help them, if neither of
her parents was a drinking character."
"God help the poor!" ejaculated Sarah, energetically. "God help the
poor, if this is man's style of relieving his starving brother! Mother,
do you think that hunger pinches any the less when the famished being
is told that next week or next month may bring him one good meal? Will
the promise of a bushel of coal or a blanket, to be given ten days
hence, warm the limbs that are freezing to-night? Is present help for
present need, then always unsafe, imprudent, insane?"
"That all sounds very fine, my dear." Mrs. Hunt grew cool as her
daughter waxed warm. "But when you have seen as much of the world as
I have you will understand how necessary it is to be careful about
believing all that we hear. Another thing you must not forget, and
that is that we are not able to give freely, no matter how much
disposed we may be to do so. It's pretty hard for a generous person
to say 'No,' but it can't be helped. People in our circumstances must
learn this lesson." Mrs. Hunt sighed at thought of the curb put upon
her benevolent desires by bitter necessity. "And, after all, very
few--you've no idea how few--of these pretended sufferers are really in
want."
This preluded a recital of sundry barefaced impositions and successful
swindles practiced upon herself and acquaintances, to which Mr. Hunt
subjoined certain of his personal experiences, all tending to establish
the principle that in a vast majority of cases of seeming destitution
the supplicant was an accomplished rogue and the giver of alms the
victim of his own soft heart and a villain's wiles. Jeannie drank in
every syllable, until her ideal beggar quite equalled the ogre who
would have made a light supper off of Hop-o'-my-Thumb and brothers.
"You gave this match-girl no money, I hope?" said Mrs. Hunt, at length.
"I did not, madam. I had none to give her." Impelled by her
straightforward sense of honesty that would not allow her to receive
commendation for prudence she had not shown, she said, bravely: "But I
lent her my umbrella upon her promise to return it to-morrow."
"Well!"
Mrs. Hunt dropped her hands in her lap, and stared in speechless dismay
at her daughter. Even her husband felt it his duty to express his
disapprobation.
"That was very unwise, my daughter. You will never see it again."
"I think differently, father."
"You are too easily imposed upon, Sarah. There is not the least
probability that your property will be returned. Was it a good
umbrella?"
"It was the one I always use."
"Black silk, the best make, with a carved ivory handle--cost six
dollars a month ago!" gasped Mrs. Hunt. "I never heard of such a piece
of shameful imprudence in all my born days. And I shouldn't wonder if
you never once thought to ask her where she lived, that you might send
a police officer after it, if the little thief didn't bring it back to
you?"
"I did think of it." Sarah paused, then forced out the confession she
foresaw would subject her to the charge of yet more ridiculous folly.
"I did think of it, but concluded to throw the girl upon her honor, not
to suggest the theft to her by insinuating a doubt of her integrity."
Mr. Hunt was annoyed with and sorry for the culprit, yet he could not
help smiling at this high-flown generosity of confidence. "You are
certainly the most unsophisticated girl of your age I ever met with,
my daughter. I shall not mind the loss of the umbrella if it prove to
be the means of giving you a lesson in human nature. In this world,
dear, it will not do to wear your heart upon your sleeve. Never believe
a pretty story until you have had the opportunity to ascertain for
yourself whether it is true or false." And with these titbits of wordly
wisdom, the cashier picked up his paper.
"Six dollars! I declare I don't know what to say to you, Sarah!"
persisted the ruffled mother. "You cannot expect me to buy you another
umbrella this season. You must give up your walks in damp weather after
this. I can't say that I'm very sorry for that, though. I never did
fancy your traipsing off two or three miles, rain or shine, like a
sewing girl."
"Very well, madam!"
But, steadied by pride as was her voice, her heart sank at the
possibility of resigning the exercise upon which she deemed that so
much of her health, physical and mental, depended. These long, solitary
walks were one of the un-American habits that earned for Sarah Hunt the
reputation of eccentricity. They were usually taken immediately after
breakfast, and few in the neighborhood who were abroad or happened
to look out at that hour, were not familiar with the straight, proud
figure, habited in its walking dress of gray and black, stout boots,
and gray hat with black plume. It was a uniform selected by herself,
and which her mother permitted her to assume, because it "looked
genteel," and became the wearer. Especially did she enjoy these tramps
when the threatening storm, in its early stages, kept others of her
class and sex at home. The untamed spirit found a fierce pleasure in
wrestling with the wind; the hail that ushered in the snow-storm, as
it beat in her face, called up lustre to the eye and warm color to the
cheek. To a soul sickening of the glare and perfume of the artificial
life to which she was confined, the roughest and wildest aspects of
nature were a welcome change.
I remember laughing heartily, as I doubt not you did also, dear reader,
if you saw it, at a cut which appeared several years ago in the Punch
department of "Harper's Magazine." A "wee toddler," perhaps four years
old, with a most lack-a-daisical expression upon her chubby visage,
accosts her grandmother after this fashion: "I am tired of life,
grandmamma! The world is hollow, and my doll is stuffed with sawdust,
and if you please, ma'am, I should like to go to a nunnery!"
Yet, that there are natures upon which the feeling of emptiness and
longing herein burlesqued seizes in mere babyhood is sadly true. And
what wonder? From their cradles, hundreds of children, in our so-called
better classes, are fed upon husks. A superficial education, in which
all that is not showy accomplishment is so dry and uninviting that the
student has little disposition to seek further for the rich kernel,
the strong meat of knowledge, is the preparatory course to a premature
introduction into the world, to many the only phase of life they are
permitted to see, a scene where all is flash and froth, empty bubbles
of prizes, chased by men and women with empty heads, and oh, how often
empty, aching hearts! Outside principles, outside affections, outside
smiles, and most pitiable of all, outside piety! Penury of heart
and stomach at home; abroad a parade of reckless extravagance and
ostentatious profession of fine feeling and liberal sentiments!
"Woe," cried the preacher, "to them that make haste to be rich!" If he
had lived in our day, in what biting terms of reprobation and contempt
would he have declaimed against the insane ambition of those who forego
the solid comforts of judicious expenditure of a moderate income would
afford; spurn the holy quiet of domestic joys--neglect soul with heart
culture--in their haste to seem rich, when Providence has seen that
wealth is not to be desired for them! Out upon the disgusting, indecent
race and scramble! The worship of the golden calf is bad enough, but
when this bestial idolatry rises to such a pitch of fanaticism, that in
thousands of households copies in pinchbeck and plated-ware are set up
and served, the spectacle is too monstrous in its abomination! This it
is that crowds our counting-rooms with bankrupts and our state-prisons
with defaulters; that is fast turning our ball-rooms and other places
of fashionable rendezvous into vile caricatures of foreign courts,
foreign manners, and foreign vices; while the people we ape--our
chosen models and exemplars--hold their side in inextinguishable
laughter at the grave absurdity of our laborious imitation. It is no
cause for marvel that, in just retribution, there should be sent a
panic-earthquake, every three years, to shake men to their senses.
Such was the atmosphere in which Sarah Hunt had always lived. In the
code subscribed to by her mother, and the many who lived and felt and
panted and pushed as she did for social distinction, nothing was of
real, absolute value except the hard cash. Gold and silver were facts.
All things else were comparative in use and worth. The garment which,
last winter, no lady felt dressed without, was an obsolete horror this
season. The pattern of curtains and furniture that nearly drove the
fortunate purchaser wild with delight, three years back, was now only
fit for the auction room. In vain might the poor depleted husband plead
for and extol their beauties. The fiat of fashion had gone forth, and
his better half seasoned his food with lamentations, and moistened her
pillow with tears until she carried her point. We have intimated that
Sarah was a peculiar girl. Whence she derived her vigorous intellect;
her strong, original turn of thought; her deep heart, was a puzzle
to those who knew her parents. The mother was energetic, the father
sensible, but both were commonplace, and followed, like industrious
puppets, in the wake of others. They were pleased that Sarah brought
home all the prizes offered at school, and both considered that she
gained a right, by these victories, to pursue her studies at home,
provided she did not obtrude her singular views and tastes upon other
people. Mrs. Hunt sighed, frequently and loudly, in her presence, that
her genius had not been for shell, or bead, or worsted work, instead of
for reading volumes, that did not even decorate the show book-case in
the library.
"If you must have so many books, why don't you pick out them with the
tasty bindings?" she had asked her daughter more than once. "And I wish
you would paint some bright, lively pictures, that would look handsome
on the walls, instead of those queer men and women and cloudy things
you have got upstairs. I'd have 'em framed right away, and be real
proud to tell who done them."
Sarah remained proof against such hints and temptation, and, shrinking
more and more from the uncongenial whirl around her, she turned her
eager, restless spirit into her secret, inner life, where, at times,
it was flattered into content by the idealities upon which it was fed;
at others, ramped and raved, like any other chained wild thing. The
sweetest drop of pleasure she had tasted for many a day was the thrill
she experienced when the forlorn object she had rescued from the power
of the storm stood before her, decently and comfortably clad. The rash
confidence she had reposed in so suspicious a stranger was the outgoing
of a heart too noble and true in every impulse to pause, for a moment,
to speculate upon the chances of another's good or bad faith. The great
world of the confessedly poor was an unknown field to her--one she
longed to explore. Her footsteps loitered more often near the entrance
of some narrow, reeking street or alley, down which she had promised
her mother not to go, than on the spacious pave, where over-dressed
women and foppish men halted at, and hung around bewitching shop
windows. She wondered how such throngs of breathing beings contrived to
exist in those fetid, cramped quarters; how they lived, spoke, acted,
felt. The great tie of human brotherhood became daily more tense, as
she pondered these things in her heart.
On this particular day, as she sat, silent and thoughtful, at her
needle, the chit-chat of her companions less heeded than the continual
dropping of the rain without, the wail of the shivering wanderer
caused a painful vibration through every nerve. The deed was done! the
experiment was tried. She was ashamed that an event so trivial held
her eyes waking, far into the night. At least, she said to herself,
she would not be without a lesson of some kind; would learn whether
deceit and falsehood prevailed in the lowest, as well as the higher
ranks of society. If, as she still strove to believe would be the case,
the child returned the borrowed property, she would make use of her,
as the means of entering upon a new sphere of research and action.
After so complete a refutation of her theories respecting the utter
corruption of all people, who had not enough to eat and to wear, her
mother could not withhold her consent to her petition that she might
become a lay-missionary--a present relief committee to a small portion
of the suffering, toiling, ill-paid masses. She would then have a work
to do--something to call out energy and engage feeling in healthy
exercise--and soothed by the romantic vision, she fell asleep with a
smile upon her lips.
The morning dawned between breaking clouds, that soon left the sky
clear and bright. All through the day Sarah watched for her visitor
of the preceding day--watched with nervousness she could not wholly
conceal, from morn to night, for two, three days--for a week. Then she
looked no longer while at home; her question, at entering the house,
after a drive or walk, ceased to be, "Has any thing been left for me?"
So palpable was her disappointment that her father forbore to make
any allusion to her loss, and Lucy, albeit she was somewhat obtuse to
the finer points of her sister's character, good-naturedly interposed
to change the subject when her mother sought to improve the incident
to her daughter's edification and future profit. Mr. Hunt was right
in supposing that the "unsophisticated girl" had learned something.
Whether she were happier or better for the lesson thus acquired was
another thing.
Once again Sarah had an opportunity for speech with her delinquent
protege. Two months later she was passing through a by-street in a
mean neighborhood, very far up town, in her morning ramble, when her
progress was arrested, for an instant, by two boys, who ran out of an
alley across the walk. One overtook the other just in front of the
lady, and catching him by his ragged collar, threw him down.
"That's right! beat him well! I'll help!" screeched a girl, rushing out
of the court whence they had come.
Grinning with delight, she flung herself upon the prostrate form and
commenced a vigorous assault, accompanied by language alike foul and
profane.
Sarah recognized her instantly, and while she paused in mingled
amazement and anger, the child looked up and saw her. In a twinkling
she relinquished her grip of the boy's hair--jumped up and sped back
into the dirty alley, with the blind haste of guilty fear.
Yes! Mr. Hunt was a wise man, who knew the world, and trebly sage in
her generation was his spouse. If their daughter had never acknowledged
this before, she did now, in her disgust and dismay at this utter
overthrow of her dreams of the virtuous simplicity to be found in lowly
homes, where riches and fashions were things unknown.